We were supposed to have coffee. I have screwed up our meeting that last few times- said yes when I was driving and couldn’t write it down, so they slipped my mind like a leaf in a the river that is a post menopausal brain.  He would text to check if we were still on.  He would greet me with a smile and a hug.

So, this time, I set my alarm. I got up early, had my coffee.

And text him. I was proud of myself for being on top of things. I asked if I should pick him up or meet him somewhere.

He didn’t answer. I text again a while later, wondering if perhaps he forgot.   He doesn’t forget. I thought about military training and time. How the people in my life who served are also punctual. Punctuality has been my life’s challenge.

“I see you are running on Navy time.” The Army infantryman I interview would joke as I slid in just under the wire for our meeting.

But this is different. He would at least text me back and tell me he forgot. Nothing.

I sent another text telling him to call when he could and went about my day.

I read about the death of a young Army veteran in Idaho who has been missing for a several days. His family had been making frantic appeals on Facebook asking for help finding their loved one. He was missing. He had PTSD. He was in crisis.

The urgency was electric in the messages. Hope in the responses from people who thought they had seen him. It has been bouncing around for nearly a week.

Today- there was a simple prayer and an image of Erik Jorgenson in his Combat shirt and ACU pants looking softly at a puppy in his arms. Someone had photo shopped angels wings on him. Erik had taken his own life to end his pain.  But like a horrible virus that just keep mutating, his pain was merely transformed into the heart broken grief of his sister, mother, friends and battle buddies.  It was sad. I felt bad.  I did what many others did, I wrote a thoughtful phrase on Facebook telling his family how sorry I was.  And then I went on with my day.

But the universe has a way of shaking you awake.

At 1:42 pm I received a text from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I had a rough night last night. One of my buddies I deployed with committed suicide and I found out last night.  I didn’t fall asleep until 6am. I just woke up.”

My heart sank. I called. His voice broke my heart. He tells me he is going to go run as he fights the tears on the edge of his voice.  He promises to call when he returns but he really just needs to go for a run right now.

I sit with the phone in my hand and think about how often he runs. He runs a lot.  Five miles. Ten miles.  In brutal heat, soft rain, doesn’t matter. He runs a lot.

Pushing his body to the point of screaming louder than the memories in his head, the pain in his heart and the loneliness that lives below that slow brilliant smile that fools everyone into thinking he is fine.

He isn’t fine.

There have been 7 suicides amongst the unit he deployed with.

Each death leaves another chink in his armor.

Each call puts another brick in his ruck that he silently shoulders alone.

His high school friends cannot understand.

He sees the fear in his father’s eyes.  He can’t even look at his mother.

So, he runs. He runs and all of his battle buddies are there as he pushes through the heat and humidity, losing himself into the dust in the winds of Afghanistan as he mechanically runs through the streets of his hometown.  He can’t run far enough or fast enough but for just a minute he is no longer alone.

And I wait.  And I weep. And I pray.

Please. God. Help.

This has got to stop.

As I shared yesterday, I am involved in a program that writes letters of support to the families of fallen service members.  I have only been doing so for three weeks and have so far written 11 letters.

That in itself is enough to make me pause and still my heart for a moment, but today, as I sat to write my letter, I found myself truly feeling heartache. See, today, my letter was to the parents of Brandon Meyers of Plainfield, Il.

Brandon was a Marine- like many his age, he joined the Corps. right out of high school. He served two tours in Iraq and returned home to his family in November  of 2010. He loved cars and motorcycles. He loved his sister and his parents. He planned to attend community college to become automotive technician.

He was my daughter’s age.

He was plagued by PTSD and struggled to come to terms with the memories he could not forget. He didn’t sleep. He left a note for his family saying they would be better of without him. That is what took my breath away- how extreme is someone’s pain that they would think their family would be better dealing with their suicide than their behavior. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I don’t say that in judgement but in sadness.  I realize there is no way to understand what was going on in this young man’s head- and I hold no judgement about what he did. My heart just breaks that he was in such emotional pain.  That he made this choice.  That his world was so black he could no longer see the sun. It is the absence of hope that kills the soul. I pray for his family and hope for them.

I have a dear, dear friend who lost her son. We don’t talk about it. She is a strong woman and has spent her live committed to helping people in need. I know this- there is no one else in my life who is as attuned to my moods,

so willing to reach out and say Hi- (even if that is all she can do-) so I feel seen.

so willing to stand and look you dead in the eye at your darkest moment and say “Hey. I’m here.”

It is this same friend who once told me she made a commitment to be open to the everyday miracles in her life- and she is.

So often, she is blessed with joyful memories of her son in the actions of her grandchildren and others.  Her life is filled with joyful laughter and  her days with purpose.  And that is truly a blessing.

I tell myself it is out of the losses in her life that she has learned to live. I envy her spirit in a good way and strive to follow her example.

That is my hope for the Meyer’s family. That they are able to find joy and laughter in the memories of their son to balance the ache that will forever live in their hearts.  I ask that you send up a prayer for the Meyers family. And for all of the veterans striving to find their way back from the memories that haunt them.  I wish you peace and  hope that you can again find your place in the world. That is my prayer for you- that you cling to hope to lift you from the darkness. That hope reminds you of the joy you bring to those around you and gives you strength to shoulder on. I pray for you. It is my hope, that you can unpack the torment you carry in your ruck and leave it behind. I pray for hope.

My heart is heavy today, so it is only fitting that I wake to gray skies and rain. It helps for me to think the sky is crying as I write the families of fallen soldiers cards of sympathies.

I wasn’t thinking when I opted into the program of writing Gold Star parents- what a bizarre name it sounds almost like they won a prize.  I understand that the name is from the Gold Star banners award to the families of fallen military members. I proudly hung a blue star banner when my daughter was deployed.  And was grateful the day I took it down when she was home safe.

So when the writing campaign came across my desk I thought sure- I facilitate a writers group for veterans this would be something we could weave in to the program. Little did I realize the frequency of announcements dropping into my email box. When I received the first one, I was excited in a weird way not in a good way but more like an “Oh- this does really work.” kind of way, but then I grew concerned about what to write- so I waited for jus the right moment when I would be able to say something poignant and meaningful- and the days passed and more notifications filled my email box.

It was overwhelming to see the emails- it seemed like a new one each day- when I finally sat down to write them, I realized it was because several of them died together on the same day in the same horrific, senseless rocket attack in Bagram, Afghanistan. They were on the FOB doing their jobs. And then they were gone.

As I read each of the obituaries of these young people I felt as if I was an intruder. Like I am getting a glimpse into the lives of these families at their weakest moment. What can I possibly write to make them feel better?

Nothing- that is what I came away with. There are no words that will ease their grief, make the day any less horrible. I stayed away from platitudes of heros and defending my freedom.  As a mom, that would not ease my hurt, offer me comfort. I just put pen to paper and let the universe take over- I am deeply sorry you lost your child. I will hold you in my prayers. I thank you for raising a child who was willing to serve and am beholden to your family for their sacrifice. I hope you can fill your heart with memories of joy to lessen the grief that fills you now.

All I can do is hope it was enough.